


Deliberation

by sophiahelix



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-01
Updated: 2000-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stupid, yes, stupid to think he wouldn't guess."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deliberation

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Diana Battis, Lizlet, and Sabine.

She's sorry she ever started this. This -- this incredible horror of a wrong step, this nightmare of stupidity, this terrible outrage against her own best interests. She isn't a foolish woman -- why does she persist in acting like one?

Yesterday it seemed right. Maybe that was just because it was filtered through the haze that fills her mind these days, maybe because she was just too tired to fight herself, maybe just because she was lonely and cold and sick of sitting alone at night.

Mistakes seem to be the currency of her life.

She needs this but she doesn't want it. She wants it but doesn't need it. Either way, some part of the puzzle isn't fitting, something that she overlooked in her grim fierce dreams yesterday has come back to haunt her and hurt her.

It's love, she thinks. She's short on love.

\---

She thinks she could fall in love with him just for the way he catches her tears and brushes her hair from her forehead. The motions are gentle and assured -- he is a man who will drink tears and swallow sorrow without ever showing it, yet he understands the pain of others. She could love him for that too, the sweet tolerance of a kind man who loves and does not pity those weaker than himself. She could go away with him forever to a tranquil life just because he kisses her on the lips instead of the forehead when he soothes her.

She could love him, if she hadn't been buried alive.

Unable to look at him, she lies curled on her side, the soft brush of his fingers on her cheek a drowsy comfort as tears slide to the pillow, leaving old wet traces on her skin. She shivers a little under the sheet he has covered her mostly nude body with, but doesn't dare to ask for a blanket, knowing that her trembling voice will bring on another terrifying rush of weeping. She flinches from the thought of that storm, that dark place where only one voice reaches her. The voice she can't bear to hear, knowing she'll never hear it again in life.

His voice.

Her breathing calms, slowly. He drops his hand from her face and lies down next to her, putting an arm over her ribcage with the gentleness she never suspected in him.

"Are you cold?" he whispers quietly, rubbing her back.

Not trusting her voice, she nods a little against the bed.

"Let me get you a blanket."

He sits up, fumbling for the down comforter they pushed to the floor in their haste just minutes ago. Then he lies down again, drawing soft warmth with him, and settles his arm over her. She almost wishes he would draw her close so that she might bury her face against him, bringing on darkness and oblivion. She wants drugs, alcohol, a blow to the head, anything that will make her forget the last hour of her life.

She's been drawn to him because she doesn't think she can break him. She's imagined beating herself against the solid wall of him, losing herself in the padded cell of his strength. He doesn't know her well enough to take her all in, to care about the hairline fractures and delicate bruises she's accumulated over the years. She knows he can't see her third dimension yet, and has only comfort and tenderness to offer her, not knowing that she is broken.

He is not the sort of man she can use in the way she is accustomed to using men. He won't play her game, won't turn away from the imposing barriers she sets up or be awestruck when she lets him past them. He is not impressed by being in her confidence, or afraid of being out of it. He is simply there, waiting for her whether she hates him or welcomes him in.

She knows she will never find forgetfulness in his arms. He's no missing half, no lonely soul waiting for completion. He doesn't despise her for needing comfort, nor does he want her to return the favor. She can't ever imagine having this quiet patience with him, or wiping away his pain.

She can't imagine loving a man who doesn't need her.

\---

She wakes up and wishes she hadn't. Curled in an awkward position, stiff pain cramps her neck as she raises her head from his shoulder. For the first time in her life, she wishes she didn't have the capacity for total morning recall, no matter what drunken escapades have preceded her awakening on the couch, in the car, on the floor of her brother's roommate's best friend's cousin's house.

Stone sober in her own bed spooned up with her partner like a pair of goddamn lovebirds.

He's watching her, and she can tell by the intensity of his gaze as she sits up that he has been for a while. She isn't surprised that he's an early riser, only surprised that he hasn't left by now. She stares back at him for a moment, then drops her eyes to take in her own nudity, the newly full breasts and delicate abdominal swell which shot it all to hell last night.

Stupid -- yes, stupid to think he wouldn't guess, that a man trained to observe wouldn't have seen her secret in less than the ten shocked seconds it took him.

Far more foolish to have misunderstood him so completely, to have failed to understand those qualities which drew her in the first place. He's a man of the old standards, a decent man who would never hesitate to comfort his sobbing partner, naked or not, but draws the line at sleeping with her when another man's name is so clearly written on her very body.

She turns away awkwardly and fumbles on the floor for her robe, remembering the look in his eyes last night as she bared her secret to him. Their kisses were fast and melting, as if one or the other might stop at any time, replacing rhythm with reason. She remembers pulling his shirt off with fierce desperation, hoping to get it over and done with before she began to cry. His face -- passion turning his sharp eyes dim, hands taking her measure, learning her curves before she could push him away.

She remembers the sudden silence, his gaze sweeping over her smooth, naked abdomen beneath him, and the betrayal in his eyes as they met hers. She realized, in that moment, what a cruel trick this was to play on him. He is still whole, still untouched by the flames which have burned her away to nothing but essentials, and deception is not necessary to him yet. He must have guessed before, she told herself, and knew from the way he turned from her that this is the one thing he's been willing to pretend about. She means that much to him.

The fact that he is still here, comforting and caring for her, is what shames her as she wraps the robe around herself. He should be gone by now, off to nurse the slap in the face she's given him, to prepare himself to give her a professional smile on Monday.

I fooled you, she thinks. Don't give me the benefit of the doubt. I did it on purpose.

Shutting the bathroom door behind her, she turns the hot water tap on as high as it will go, and steps in the water, which is just a few degrees shy of scalding. She closes her eyes and imagines herself stripped of skin, her old life burned away as flesh melts from bone. She sees a bone cage, a trapped grieving heart and a fatherless child. She imagines crawling into her own womb, sharing a landscape of blooming black flowers and soft sounds with the child who deserves a mother who doesn't make mistakes.

\---

By the time she is clean and dry, facing him no longer seems such an impossible task. The error hangs clear between them, both equally at fault. She remembers last night, gritting her teeth and seducing him over lasagna and overcooked asparagus, he leaning over her as she washed the plates. She tricking herself into wanting his warm breath and hard muscles against her.

The whole thing seems so ridiculous, she nearly smiles as she opens the door. The bedroom is empty, and she feels her hard-won composure shudder as she directs a confused glance around the room. His belt is still on the floor by the bed, though, and she hears the sound of dishes in the kitchen. She picks up the belt, takes a deep breath, and goes toward the living room.

He's pulling down mugs for coffee, and the fact that he knows not to use the good china ones breaks her heart. He must have been married, she thinks, studying him from the doorway of the bedroom. He's too careful of her not to be, and careful of himself. No shaggy neglect there, and the way he treats her belies an understanding of women gleaned from more than a maternal relationship.

A fine man, a good man, a wonderful catch.

Not her catch.

Clearing her throat, she walks into the kitchen and takes a mug, nodding at him. Their eyes meet briefly, and she realizes with infinite relief that he knows enough to say nothing. They wait on opposite sides of the counter for the coffee to perk, studying beige tile in almost amiable silence. He pours for her with unthinking chivalry, then gulps down four black swallows, and rinses out the mug in the sink.

They have to look at each other now, because this is the last time they'll ever be this close without flinching. She stares into his eyes, trying to thank him without bending or breaking, without looking like she was in such desperate need of the comfort he has given her.

She fails.

He quirks a tiny smile at her, and she sees a world of promise drain away from her because she has been bound and made for one man only. The tears choke her again, and he moves towards her with open arms.

She steps back quickly, turning her head to let the tears slide behind her hair. She brushes her wrist over her cheeks, and stretches a painful smile over her face.

He extends a hand and she grasps it, never dropping her gaze from his face. Looking down, he finally speaks.

"You'll find him," he says quietly. "Because you have to."

He squeezes her hand and looks up at her. "And I'll be there for you."

There's nothing in the world to say to him that isn't foolish, or meaningless, or cruel, or useless. She nods.

He drops her hand after a moment, and turns to leave. She holds the door as he goes out, and suddenly puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you, John," she whispers, and shuts the door.  



End file.
